


Keepers of the Hearth

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Solves frequent reader complaint, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Joy, Post-War of the Ring, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2004-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edoras, 3021, the last year of the Third Age.  Tomorrow the Golden Hall will witness the wedding of Eomer King of the Mark and Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. For more than thirty years another has kept it safe, but now she must make ready for the coming of the Queen.<br/><i>Mithril Awards 2004:  Winner - Best characterisation – original character.  Finalist - Best story focusing on Men</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightfall

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_‘Too often have I heard of duty,’ she cried. ‘But am I not of the House of Eorl, a shieldmaiden and not a dry-nurse?’_ **Éowyn** “The Passing of the Grey Company”

* * *

“It sets my mind at rest to know you will be welcoming her,” Éomer had said, the day before his wedding, his face fair aglow with happiness. “She knows the words well enough but frets she will forget them when it comes to the point.”

“Aye,” Winfrith had found herself muttering, somewhat against her will, “she may _know_ the words but does she understand them?”

Her king had only chuckled at that and gently grasped her chin, turning her face until she looked him in the eye. “Poor Winni,” he had laughed, “I do believe you’re jealous, but I’ll wager you’ll like her well enough when you only give her a chance.”

_No doubt he expected me to melt in a puddle on the floor,_ she thought, but such winning ways had no effect on her. “Perish the thought that I should fail to give _anyone_ a chance, my lord,” she had retorted frostily, which had only had him laughing all the more as he strode away about his tasks and she had gone about her own, goodness knows there were enough of them to do.

Of course, in truth, they both knew well enough how greatly he had honoured her. Near as long as the Riddermark had lived the Golden Hall had beat at the heart of it. Joy it had seen in its time - and sorrow. Births, hand-fastings, funeral feasts, one ever followed the other in endless round, and Winfrith had seen her share of them all.

In the final rush of preparation there had been little time to stop and think, for all must be in order for the coming of the new queen, the first that Meduseld had seen since before her lord was born. But now as she oversaw the final cleaning she looked inside a little, as her mother used to say, and fell to wondering whether indeed she was not a little jealous after all.

_No, not jealous,_ she decided after a while, _but more than a little worried._ After all what did she really know of this woman from beyond the mountains that had always edged her life? From this strange land of ships and swans?

Éowyn, gusting into the house with her husband like a keen breeze off the heights, had sought to blow the cobwebs from her mind. “They truly love each other, Winfrith,” she had said, as she gave her a hug. And indeed she only had to look at her young king when he spoke of his bride to know, at least for him, that was the truth. “Why should she leave the land of her birth if not for love of my brother - and of the Mark?” her lady had added. It seemed, then, here was another of those lasses who loved freedom and fresh air, to run and ride over the grassland in the sunlight.

“Éowyn understands these things, I must remember that,” Winfrith muttered as she gave the last of the drinking cups its final burnishing. _And this Lady Lothíriel seems wide-hipped and well enough – that’s all to the good,_ her sensible side had to approve. For if there was one thing she could not bear it was that Éomer should endure the long pain and loneliness that had been his uncle’s fate – and her own. Aye, hers had been a double blow. When a woman loses a child it is not just the heart that hurts but the body too, for the unneeded breast aches that it can give comfort no more. Even though more than forty years had passed she still remembered that pain. _Has it really been that long?_ She was startled by the thought.

That day she first entered the house the bustle had been for sorrow rather than for joy, though, as often, there was some mingling of the two. She had thought her own life had ended when she lost the babe, all that remained to her of Léofric. _Shot in the back! No time even to look his enemy in the eye, for all it was an orc!_ The anger still lingered even now, but then the shock had been such that she gave birth before her time. The babe, brave little thing, held on to life for almost a month before losing the fight, the same day as Queen Elfhild herself. How could she have refused to nurse her child?

_My Théodred, my joy, I could ne’er have loved you more had you been my own._ Impatiently she swiped at her eyes, heedless of the ashy marks she left behind. Two times now she had visited him where he lay, still keeping the Fords. Each time she had taken with her a handful of this hearth dust to cast upon his grave so he still might remember his home.

“And we must remember the good times,” she said firmly, out loud. And truly there had been many such times, when the Hall had seen its full share of laughter. Bent to her work she glimpsed, out the corner of memory, a wet afternoon and her little atheling giggling mightily as he played hide and seek with other children in the shadows of the pillars. Yet, even now, she could not escape some dark thoughts, for that was a time before _games_ of that sort were tainted with fear and threat.

Not that she had been frightened of the Wormtongue for herself. No indeed, for what could he have possibly taken from her except her life, which she held but lightly in her hand? But she had greatly feared what he might do to others that she loved, especially her lady who had been forced to bear the worst of his wiles. That hateful voice, false-fair and cunning, weaving its webs to smother them all. _“My lord, is not your sister-daughter well of the age to wed? Surely she should have the running of the household wholly in her hands?”_ How she had loathed him that he could make all she held sacred and honourable seem nought but a cage! Still Gálmód’s son had not been able to get rid of Winfrith so easily, for even in the worst of his dotage Théoden had remembered he had made his hearth her home.

“And I did my best to keep it safe for you, my lord, rest now in peace.” She sighed, trying to remember him only as he truly was, the king that returned in the end. Not that old man, crouched over the fire as if it would never give him the warmth he craved, who would have paid no mind even if it smoked and sputtered instead of burning clear and clean.

_Aye, but those were dangerous times to try and save what honour we could,_ she recalled. With Théodred and Éomer often away and Elfhelm forced to play the watching game, Háma, bless him, had helped as much as he was able, but such were the days that even the Captain of the Household had to be careful of his deeds. Then as the treasures had started to disappear it was Éomer who managed to sneak others away. _The lad’s always been brave, I’ll give him that,_ she thought gratefully, _though he was a fool._ For things would have gone ill if he had been discovered ‘stealing’ from his uncle’s hoard. Though, truly, if things had gone on much longer Meduseld was like to have been stripped entirely bare.

“But ‘tis all in the past,” she said with a satisfied smile as she ran her eyes over the splendour of the Hall before her now. Now it looked fine indeed with everything back as it should be. Every wall hanging and banner in its place, every horn and drinking cup burnished to perfection and the wood faultlessly laid upon the hearth.

But, for the first time that she could remember, there was no fire burning upon that stone.

She knew, it was something that must happen, for the proper blessing of the house, yet she could not help but feel uneasy. To assure herself that all was well she walked to the charcoal brazier set by the doors. Aye, all was safe. The flame she had taken from the old fire still burnt slow and steady, waiting the time when it would return to its home. To be sure it would feel welcome, she had left behind some of the ashes and returned some of the old, half-burned logs, to lie alongside the new. Silver birch they were, tinder dry, the curling slivers of bark eager for the torches touch.

She let out a last gusty breath as she left the Hall. “Well, I’ve done the best I can, now ‘tis up to her.”


	2. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edoras, 3021, the last year of the Third Age. Tomorrow the Golden Hall will witness the wedding of Eomer King of the Mark and Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. For more than thirty years another has kept it safe, but now she must make ready for the coming of the Queen.

_Gasping … choking … death-wings beating … corpse-breath of decay. Cruel-clawed, the fell beast wheeled … stooped to rip open the house’s heart. Icy cries pierced her. Her limbs fear-frozen … she could not move. The fire sputtered … dimmed in the deadly blast. If she could only stretch out her hand … reach for the flames … keep them safe. But all her world was fading … falling into darkness …_

“Ah, ‘tis hopeless!” Winfrith exclaimed, in frustration, as she sat up in the narrow bed. Resigned, she pulled the curtain aside to welcome a shaft of moonlight shining through the casement above. She well understood why her sleep was troubled, on this of all nights, but that was no comfort to her at all; and while part of her forgave herself for feeling such unease, the other part scolded for being such a fool. _How will I do tomorrow’s duty if I don’t take proper rest tonight?_ She had to smile at that, despite it all. “So, now I’m even dry-nursing myself,” she chuckled. Old habits, it seemed, died hard, especially in this room.

She reached for the cup of water by her side to wash away that old taste of dread. Leaning back on her pillow with a sigh, she tried to pay no heed to the clamminess that clung to her skin, despite the coolness of the night. The urge was very great to check once again that the hearth-fire still burned safe, but she knew it for what it was, but a marker of a wider fear, and kept her body firmly in the bed - too short for her though it was.

“What’s the use of tramping all through the house at this hour, disturbing the guests,” she muttered, and indeed that was no small thing to bear in mind, for even though many, including the King and Queen of Gondor themselves, were camped on the grassland below, the house was full to bursting, and the slightest spark could have it blowing up into the night. But as she struggled to fit herself into the child-sized bed, she could not help longing for the comfort of her own, so cruelly close, just to the other side of that well-used connecting door. _Still, guests are guests,_ she sighed, _and I don’t expect it feels so large when you have to share it with another._ Her usual space was now taken up by the two maids from Dol Amroth who waited on the Princess and the bride.

_At least, for a while, all seems to be still!_ That thought alone was enough to give her some relief. _And if I went gadding off to the Hall I’d have to be creeping past that Southron sleeping on the floor._ She shivered a bit remembering his glitter sharp glance, though really she was more unnerved than scared for he was the first of his race that she had ever seen.

_Customs differ, I must remember that,_ she thought as she tried to quell the wave of outrage that rose up in her at having to have them in the house at all. _But does he really have to guard his master’s door like that - they are guests in the House of Eorl!_ And, worse, she had heard from one of the serving men, that this watchdog tasted every morsel of food before it was set before his lord. _As if we were all out to poison him, indeed!_

Yet, even she had to concede that such fears would not be entirely without some ground, for it was scarcely two years since the battle deaths on the Pelennor. Aye, if he must be having business with them, Éomer was wise enough to grant these outlandish envoys the King’s roof-protection.

_And if someone did pass a knife through their ribs to avenge a dear-one dead, would that still be deemed an honest stroke?_ She was rather surprised she was even having such thoughts. “No, not for my own dear lord,” she said softly. “Gloriously he smote down their Serpent before his end!” She reminded herself firmly, that his wrongs, like his son’s, were at the hands of others, and he had been justly avenged. For had not his sword-thain, their own Meriadoc of the Shire, sent word that both the Worm and his Wizard were dead? _Aye, Master Holdwine of the Mark,_ she thought with dour satisfaction, _truly you are worthy of that name!_

But as for these … _Haradrim_ …even in her mind she found it hard to get her tongue around the word, she supposed they must be given such chances as they would take; for they were Men after all, not half-Orcs or Sorcerers – or even Dunlendings. _And evil voices can worm their way into the will of any man in Horseland, Stoneland or Southland,_ she remembered grimly enough – _aye and woman too._

At least her king had the grace to offer her a sorry smile when he had given her the news. “Prince Imrahil requests that I invite them,” Éomer had said, then chuckled, “I think he may have some reasons of his own.”

“No doubt, he has, my lord,” was all that she had said. But for the Eorlingas to consider having dealings with them? Surely that was a step too far, even in the interests of the Mark.

“Aragorn has been among them, long ago, and says they value horses - treat them as well as we would want.” But even Éomer had traded a doubtful look with her at that. “Of course that is something that we shall have to judge for ourselves,” he had continued, “ but he says that even in the days of the Deceiver they resisted paying them as tribute whenever they could.” His face had lit up. “Would it not be a fine thing, to see black horses running in our fields again, as they did when I was a child? These Haradrim still have some, smaller, lighter than our own, ’tis true, but well enough. I saw them for myself.”

Winfrith had sighed, stirred despite herself, but not entirely convinced. _At least in the matter of horses I can be sure he will do what is best._ For never in an age of the world could she dream that Éomer would ever harm a horse, even though she might consider he still had a lot to learn about many other things.

Yet here in the cool light of the moon, as she shifted in the narrow, uncomfortable bed, she could no longer put down that frightening little voice that piped up from somewhere in her head, _“Are you entirely sure Winfrith, Winsige’s daughter, that you are not the one that might have a lot to learn?”_

“Come, look at this!” he had exclaimed that sunny morning a little while after his betrothal. His expression had been so eager that she half expected him to grab her by the hand and pull her along as he had done as a child, but instead they had proceeded at a dignified pace to the Hall where he had opened the tooled leather tube that he held in his hand, a gift for the occasion, he explained, from Elessar King himself. When he had unrolled the vellum and spread it out on a table in the sunlight, she had seen it was a map. At least, she had assumed that was what it was, for it was the first that she had ever seen.

Winfrith was as good with her letters as any woman in the Mark but that did not mean she felt entirely comfortable with them, and this had seemed even stranger still. _It is as if the world has suddenly shrunk and stretched all at the same time,_ she had thought feeling a little giddy. The mountains that had towered above her all her life, the timeless peaks marching on forever into the distance, were now nought but little pointed pen marks on a page, and roads that would have taken her two or three days to ride could suddenly be travelled in a single finger’s step. Yet the places that had always been but names, as unreal as any fancies told in hall, could now be seen in their place in spite of all natural barriers of the land.

“’Tis as if an eagle has suddenly took me up a-soaring over the heights!” she had exclaimed, then smiled a little at the comparison as she looked at the man at her side. Her king had been as absorbed as she had ever seen him, his eyes glittering and intense as he spied out places that he knew or hunted down others yet to be revealed. _How he would love to soar along that great backbone of stone, seek out what lies beyond, even as far as the fading edge of the world!_ she had thought, seeing something of him for the first time.

And now she realised with a little jolt that, save for his duty, he could almost do just that, thanks to the legend that had risen up in front of him one day from out of the grass; who had turned out to be a friend as warm and real as any Rider from the Wold.

But then Éomer, his feet somewhat back on the ground, had suddenly remembered she was there. Smiling he had begun with what she knew, pointing out the familiar names of the Mark, her family’s holding, the place where her Léofric had fallen and the place where Théodred now lay. Then Helm’s Deep and Háma’s grave and Dunharrow, last refuge of their folk.

Then, step-by-step, he had coaxed her further north, to visit the legends who had travelled out of tales to be guests of the House of Eorl; even as far as the Holbytlan’s Shire where she had laughed to see the small drawing of a pipe that marked their home.

Then all of a sudden, with a giddying leap, they had come galloping back past the beacons to the Stoningland; to halt before the Gates of Mundberg where so many Riders lay, the brave hearth companions who had died beside their king. Then, he had guided her across the Great River to Ithilien where Folcred and Fastred rested, buried under one mound, and where his sister was building her new home.

“’Tis not too late for even you to make a journey should you wish it, Winfrith” he had teased. “Would you refuse to visit Éowyn? What if she were to send word she was with child?”

Then, serious once more, he had pointed out mountain peaks where new beacons might be built to link the Eorlingas to their distant kinfolk further north, and to make a faster line-of-sight from Dol Amroth in the south. “For now,” he had said, “aid could even travel, swiftly, through the Paths of the Dead.”

As her eyes strayed unwillingly to the Dimholt Door, Winfrith had been horrified by a sudden ill-omened thought. “Surely your bride will not take that road!” And even Éomer had paled.

“Indeed no! It is said the Dead now sleep, but still no man, from Gondor or the Mark, would take those Paths but in direst need! And he had quickly traced out the longer, brighter way, by sea and land, that his Lothíriel would come.

“Feel free to have a look at it any time you wish,” her lord had grinned, as he rolled up the world and slipped it carefully back into its case. He had stowed the map in a chest, to which she had a key, but she had not gone back.

Now in the uncertain darkness Winfrith felt that she was the one at sea, wallowing around on unsteady waves. _They say, when it is rough, ‘tis best to keep your eye on the horizon,_ she thought, _but that seems to be ever moving further and further away._ In unsure times what was most needed was a refuge, did not she, of all folk, know that well enough?

_In the night I would wake to find her standing, silent, by my bed, little body rigid with the cold._ Winfrith sighed recalling that time of pain, when the house had done its best to welcome Éowyn, as yet scarce seven years old. _But all she needed was to feel warm once more, safe within the circle of my arms. Then I could carry her back to her bed – this bed - and tell her tales to chase away the dark._

_Tried and tested, that way works well enough,_ she thought, musing fondly on the latest fosterlings in the house. There had been a new, bittersweet, song to sing to brave Guthláf’s young sons; that gloriously their father rode with his lord to the battle plain; that, even in death, he kept the banner of Théoden King safe out of the mire! She wondered how the two lads were faring with their friends, for they had gleefully swapped their warm and comfortable room for the chance of sleeping out, in bedrolls, under the stars. _Scaring each other stiff with ghostly stories, the lot of them, no doubt!_ she guessed, amused.

_Indeed this room has seen it share of story telling down through the years,_ she thought. From her borrowed bed she could just make out the small wooden figures ranged on shelves along the wall; kings and heroes of the Mark, every one of them had their legend to tell; and how Éowyn had loved them all. _And now it seemed she is a tale all of her own!_ For more than once, Winfrith had come across children, lads and lasses both, playing a new game; ‘The Lady of the Shield-arm’. If she had not known that heart-crushing horror, she would have laughed to see a small boy, blanket over his head, intoning as darkly as he could: “Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey!” as the tallest, brandishing a wooden sword had courageously put an end to the foul dwimmerlaik once and for all - aided by the smallest, dutifully stabbing the monster in the knee. But the memory, it seemed only made her more restless than ever.

Winfrith let out a defeated sigh, and gave up her battle to stay in the bed. Wrapping herself in a blanket she crossed the room to take a closer look at the well-worn children’s toys. Much to her approval the figures were all carefully arrayed in their proper order on the shelves. Except for the enemies of course. They were piled in their usual shameful heap at one end: orcs, wargs, trolls, Dunlendings, all justly scarred by many sound defeats. But at this deep hour of the night, one figure beckoned more brightly than the rest; clad all in white, Helm the Hammerhand, gaunt with hunger and grief, standing, stone dead in the snow, with his knees still unbowed.

Winfrith wrapped her blanket closer. That tale was much-loved, and she knew she told it well, but always she felt a horror that Helm had been driven to such a desperate end. _Aye, but now I know that such despair would have had me grovelling in the dirt like a worm,_ she thought. Now, truly, in the cold light of the moon, she saw the great king glimmering with a generous strength and beauty all his own. _But such a terrible price he paid!_ For in that Long Winter there had been no hand left to pull him out of the snow.

On a foolish impulse she opened her door and lit the children’s night-light from the torch burning in the hall. Chuckling wryly at herself she placed it where it cast a little warmth around the room. Then reaching to a shelf, set a bit apart, she took down the figure she still held most dear; Hild, Helm’s sister, safely hiding in Dunharrow with her son, that the Hall could be cleansed and a new line of kings begun. _For hope remains while women endure,_ so she always told the tale, for it was right young warriors remembered what they were to be shielding from harm.

_And ‘twas not a treasure but a talisman!_ Now she could laugh, remembering that terrible time and her lady’s stern command that no treasures were to go. Against all reason, Winfrith had slipped Hild into her pouch, ready in case she should also be forced to flee. But when the Bringer of Despair had come for her, and not even the white light of the wizard had been enough to stop her cowering in a corner of the Hall, she had found her hand grasping her tightly to drive away the fear.

Smiling now, Winfrith carefully returned Hild to stand next to her brother, where the night-light shed its little flickering gleam, and still chuckling at such foolishness, squeezed her body back into the bed and hoped that sleep might come.


	3. Day-break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edoras, 3021, the last year of the Third Age. Tomorrow the Golden Hall will witness the wedding of Eomer King of the Mark and Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. For more than thirty years another has kept it safe, but now she must make ready for the coming of the Queen.

“I knew I’d be paying for it in the morning,” Winfrith muttered, limping slightly as the pre-dawn chill played havoc with her knees. She felt a twinge of envy too, as she arrived outside Éowyn’s door just in time to see her come edging through as supple and straight as a mountain ash. As she closed the door behind her, with an over-obvious quietness, there was a smirk on her lady’s face, that Winfrith knew too well. The smirk could not resist becoming a smile as Éowyn turned to greet her. “Still not used to our beer,” she whispered, an explanation that needed no further comment as the women walked out of the house towards the stables, as they had done many times before.

By the time they had saddled up and lead their horses into the yard, dawn was breaking in the sky. They could just make out great banks of skidding clouds and there was more than a hint of rain in the air. “Looks as though we might get wet, my lady,” she said, not really bothered at the thought.

“Not worried by a little rain, Winfrith?” Éowyn grinned as she swung lithely up into the saddle.

“Best it rains now and gets it over with, I suppose. Wouldn’t do for us all to get soaked later in the day.” Winfrith tried to pay no heed to the eyes on her back as she lead her horse towards the mounting block. “And there’s no need to give me that look either, my lady. Old age comes to us all, as you’ll learn soon enough.”

“Bracken doesn’t seem to think so,” the younger woman remarked as they moved off down the hill towards the Gate. And indeed her elderly mare was prancing around like a filly delighted to be in such exciting company as Windfola once again.

_It really is unnaturally quiet,_ she realised after a while. _Even the cocks seem still to be asleep._ In all the many times she had taken this ride with her lady in the dawning light, she did not think she had ever seen Edoras as quiet as this. All the more remarkable for the town was crammed as chock full as the house. She looked up at the rain clouds, standing out more darkly as the sky began to pale and thought, _Truly this must be the quiet before the storm._

For nearly a week now Edoras had been a hive of activity, every stallholder and householder making the most of the folk that swarmed in from every corner of the Mark to see their king take his bride. But today had been declared a holiday, so the stalls were not preparing to open and many took the chance to stay tucked up in beds, saving their strength for the revelry to come. Only a few were abroad, letting out chickens, milking cows and attending to other unavoidable chores.

She gazed out over the fields ahead dotted with tents of every sort. The main encampment was a fine sight, indeed, with all its banners and many coloured pavilions. Again all was very still, shrouded a little by mist, but over the past few days the sounds of merriment could be heard even at the top of the hill. It seemed that no sooner did a crowd of Riders gather together than the contests began – archery, racing, wrestling. _Aye and every kind of horse-trading too,_ she thought, wryly. _Still ‘tis how it should be done, out in the sunshine over a draft of ale and a wager - not huddled together in some miserable shadow._ No doubt the visitors from Gondor took pleasure in that too.

_At least the gate guards are not asleep,_ Winfrith approved as they leapt to their feet in good time and bowed as the women passed through.

_My lady’s right,_ she thought, as Bracken picked up her heels and took off joyfully in the tracks of her leader, _it seems there is still some life in the old girl yet. Mind you, she’s always had a swift turn of foot._ Aye that had been a generous gift! Théoden had been unable to deny his little sister-daughter anything if she worked on him long enough. Her complaints had indeed been pitiful that she was ever held back by Winfrith’s ‘snail of a nag’, so Winfrith had found herself in possession of a fine chestnut mare the better to keep up on their daily rides. Rides that had only ceased in the darkest days of the Worm.

Now as they raced together over the grassland and the rain began to fall in force, Winfrith felt the old stirring in her blood as the wind sang in her ears. As they gathered speed, Bracken rose to the occasion and even inched her nose in front for a while as they thundered over the springy turf.

After a time, faces glowing with wind and laughter, they slowed and cantered over to the Barrowfield, as was their wont. They did not need to speak as they rode around the mounds, the stillness only broken by rain pattering on the pale swathes of _simbelmynë_. For the first time in a while, Winfrith found herself pausing in front of Helm’s remains. Then they sat quietly together in front of the long-home of Théoden King where he lay, his queen now at his side, each remembering him silently in their own way.

_Aye, he was indeed a great king at the last!_ The tale now told itself clearly in her mind. Her grief had yet been green for Théodred and Háma and the land was shrouded in Shadow from the east, but she had stayed at the house to serve her lord. Then her king had come home to his empty Hall cleared of all its treasures – not hoarded in the hills but left in the storerooms as an example to his folk. But Théoden King had said, “Treasures, that cannot be let go, are as millstones round the neck. Do not think too much of them Winfrith, and do not tarry to be burned in the house, even if all seems lost. If news reaches you that enemies have crossed the Entwash take your horse and leave at once, for the hearth-fire must stay safe.” And, indeed, the dark lantern had already been prepared and was standing by the stone. Then she had filled the stirrup cup from the mulling bowl and served it to him, and when he had drunk, she had kissed his hand, and he had bidden her farewell. Kingly and unbowed, at the head of the host, he had faded at last from her sight. Then she had allowed herself to weep, but only for a while …

Slowly she became aware, wandering back up the road of memory, that they were no longer alone; that there was another quiet figure, hood drawn up, sitting a horse on the edge of the mist. _Nothing to mark, on such a day as this, if it were not to Thengel King he pays his respects,_ Winfrith thought, and did not need her lady’s whisper to know this was the Lord Aragorn himself. _For few now remember Fengel’s son outside of song,_ she realised sadly and found herself wondering, not for the first time, that this man was thrice the age of Éomer, yet he looked, at first glance, not so much older than her king. _Except about the eyes,_ she mused, _they show only the wisdom that age can bring, aye and the knowledge that he is born to be a king of men. That surely marks a man from his youth._ And again she felt a surge of sorrow that her own dear Théodred did not lie among his fellows in this place. But among the Eorlingas it had never been less of an honour to rest where they had fallen, and his fame would now ever guard the passage to his land. _And in time a new line will be started,_ she made herself think more brightly, looking at the shape of the earth and where those barrows might be best raised. _Though, Béma willing I’ll be long gone by then!_

Presently they turned away, without giving greeting as was custom, and headed back towards the town at an easy pace to cool the horses. “He told me once that Thengel would ever have his thanks,” her lady commented when they were out of reach of even a Ranger’s ears. “He was young, a stranger but found in him a wise lord - and a kind one.”

_Aye if the tales were true Thengel knew what it was to live among strangers; and his wife also._ Winfrith felt a touch of unease that she feared might be something more than the clear concerns now flooding her mind. “So, when will you be moving to _your_ new house, my lady, it must be almost finished by now?” She found she was slightly annoyed at Éowyn’s knowing smile, though her lady was happy to set her mind at rest.

“’Tis ready now, Winfrith, and has been for a while but, as ever, we must take a lead.” She sighed and Winfrith could read well enough the memories in her mind. “For in this we are not alone. There are many families eager to move back to their old homes, and many new settlers as well, but the rule has been strictly enforced that all must wait. It may seem harsh, I know, but the homesteads in Ithilien are scattered, most now in ruins, and many of the roads destroyed. The Destroyer had many long years to defile the place. More horrors are brought to light every day.”

Winfrith shuddered, guessing well what they might be, as her lady continued angrily, “And as if that isn’t enough, they have left behind cruel devices, traps, hidden in the undergrowth, and even poisoned some of the wells. There has been much cleaning and preparing to do.” She took a deep breath. “But at last the end is in sight, at the year’s turn the people will start returning too, in an orderly way, and we shall be free to move to Emyn Arnen as well.”

_Ever that one pulls at the bit,_ she smiled, _at least some things will never change._

“You can’t imagine how much planning there must be, Winfrith, with the King and our uncle giving us their support,” she was continuing earnestly. “They will be lending us men from other posts, as many of our Rangers must have leave to see their families settled before winter returns. Everyone will need supplying through the first few seasons and there will be much to do for many years to come. But it will be done,” she said firmly, “and, in spite of everything, it is such a very beautiful place, Winfrith, a place worth fighting for and working for, and soon it will be full of fine people to care for it as well.”

_Aye what is a land without its people,_ she thought, _but houses need their blessings too._ “What of our customs, my lady, will you be saying the words? Do they do such things in that land?”

“Not until now I think,” she grinned. “Though they do have a custom, close to ours in heart, at the turning of the year. Those who have lived beneath the Mountains of Shadow have long held it dear. This year, in our new home, we will hold that rite as usual, and with it we will hold our own.”

“Ah, that is well! And who will stand with you? A kinswoman of your husband?”

“No, no, don’t you see Winni, it must be a woman of Ithilien.” She laughed a little remembering. “One of our Rangers has a grandmother, very old indeed but remarkably hale. She was one of the last to be forced from that place and she is ever hopeful to be first back. I have spoken to her and we have agreed. If she is spared, and she is most determined that she will be, we will say our words together, but in her tongue, as is only right.”

And Winfrith found that she did see, and it did feel right. _For what matter the tongue so long as the meaning is clear?_

They made their way up through the wakening town and, grudgingly left their horses to be tended by another. Winfrith’s mind began to fill with the many tasks she still had left to do. “Well maybe ‘tis set to be a fine day after all,” she said looking up. _And, as my king requests, I suppose I will ‘only give her a chance’._ But still the unease that nagged at her would not entirely disperse as the rain clouds clearing overhead.


	4. Midday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edoras, 3021, the last year of the Third Age. Tomorrow the Golden Hall will witness the wedding of Eomer King of the Mark and Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. For more than thirty years another has kept it safe, but now she must make ready for the coming of the Queen.

_If she goes on like this, she deserves to win my heart, through hard work alone,_ Winfrith thought after a while, a little unsure whether to be touched or annoyed. _Of course it helps, she is so clearly in love – and so young._ The two women were sitting together in the best guest room a little while before the wedding was to begin. Lothíriel, it seemed, was resolved to speak her new tongue from the start and had greeted her most courteously saying all the right things. Winfrith had been impressed, despite herself, that she already spoke so well. Then she had pleaded for help in a last run through of her words, so they had gone over them together though, Winfrith had to admit, there really was no need.

Afterwards they had spoken a little stiffly, just to fill the time, of Dol Amroth and her journey to the Mark, until the younger woman had suddenly asked, with true feeling in her voice, “Are you never sorry you left your home?”

Winfrith, taken a little aback, had paused a while to gather her thoughts. “Nay, my lady,” she had finally said, “I am not. For a home is a place for children and with my man dead there was no hope for that. So ‘twas best I left it in the care of another and my husband-brother’s wife has kept it well. Theirs is a fine family, fruitful and fair, as we say, and it is less than a day’s ride if I want to call – though, recently, my bones are telling me ‘tis twice as far.” And Winfrith had to concede that her new lady’s interest in the place, where in truth she had only spent a short time of her life, had seemed to be as real as her smile.

“’Tis a fine holding,” she had found herself saying, unexpectedly warming to the task. “Good home-fields, good grazing. The steading itself is small,” she had allowed, “but it is strong and well built enough to have stood its ground since almost the time of Eorl.”

“And you could have gone back once Lord Théodred was grown?”

“Aye, that I could,” she had mused, “but by then Edoras was my home, and besides, there was always another child needing my care. Nor does a household suddenly run itself.”

She had not seen fit to add that, before she left to wed her Éomund, Théodwyn had asked her to stay at the house. That even then she had been concerned for her brother’s well being, lonely after the death of his queen. That memory had come with another little prick of pain, but she had shrugged it off as best she could. _For today is a day for joy and she would not wish for me to grieve. Aye and it is an honour I share with Éowyn to stand in for her this day, and I must do the best I can._ And almost with amusement she had felt her heart melting just another drop.

_And the thaw continues,_ she thought wryly as the lass made a point of showing her how much she honoured the ways of the Eorlingas. _‘Old, new, borrowed, blue’_ those were the things that brought luck to a hand-fasting from time beyond memory, but the heirloom that Lothíriel laid out upon the bed was something precious indeed. And all the more so for it was Éowyn who was the lender.

Winfrith fingered the rich blue cloth that felt unlike anything she was used to in the Mark and ran a shrewd eye over the silver embroidery set with crystal stars at neck and hem. She could find nothing to fault, the garment was in every way beautiful but she found herself strangely drawn by a faint air of sadness that was part of it as well. So much so she almost did not notice the bride was telling her its tale.

It seemed it had come from the Prince Faramir and had belonged to his mother, the Lady Finduilas, Lothíriel’s own aunt. “People always say how much I look like her,” Lothíriel was saying quietly, “though I did not know her, she died before I was born. They say she faded in the face of the Shadow, far from the sound of the sea. Few chances in Minas Tirith, I suppose, to blow it out of her mind. Father says my uncle, was never the same after he lost her; it was as if his light had gone out.” She paused for a while before going on, thoughtfully, “Mother thinks it is ill-omened for me to wear it, but I feel it is only right that we should remember her. And now it has come to Éowyn, and to her it is a sign that darkness passes away. And it is _my_ hand-fasting after all.” She paused again then surprised Winfrith by fixing her with her eye. “I don’t think Mother likes to spend time away from the sea, but I know I will prefer riding the Riddermark to the waves.”

Winfrith, swallowed a snort and could almost feel Théodwyn’s breath on the back of her neck. _Aye, aye, my lady, no need to say more. It seems she might do well enough after all._ With a resigned smile, she gently settled the mantle over Lothíriel’s shoulders and thought she looked lovely indeed, dressed otherwise in simple white, with a girdle of blue ships and silver swans, and her glossy raven hair hanging loose under a fine net of Dol Amroth pearls.

Her own preparations had been somewhat hurried as it was late before she could take a moment for herself. Dressed in her best attire, she had stared at her old looking glass in a spirit of frankness. “Well, it seems I still look fair enough,” she had declared, not un-pleased with what she saw. The dress was the one she had made for Théoden’s barrowing and Éowyn’s trothplighting. She had smiled at the memory of her lady speaking to her of clothes for what must have been the first time ever.

“’Twill be an excuse for you to have a new dress, Winfrith.” She had laughed. “Really, when was the last time you treated yourself to one?” And indeed she could scarce remember. It had been long years since she had even thought about such things. “It needn’t be black, either you know,” her lady had coaxed.

“Well of course it needn’t be black – but it will be,” she had replied. Black she had worn since the day her Léofric was killed and black she would wear until she followed him to the grave. So black it had been but very finely cut and she had embroidered the borders with red, green and gold to match the tassels on her soft indoor boots. She had quickly pinned her hair in place, the braids still thick though now they were entirely grey, before hurrying off to the wait upon the bride.

Now she stood side by side with her, gazing out from the finest mirror she could ever have imagined; a treasure that had travelled all the way from Dol Amroth, safely cradled in its own case stuffed with straw. But before she could glimpse a like clear picture of her thoughts, the Prince and Princess arrived. As both were clearly much moved to see their daughter, Winfrith bowed respectfully and slipped out of the door.

* * *

_Well, any ill-omened thoughts seem to have been cleared away,_ Winfrith thought with relief as she watched the bride’s party arrive from her place among the household. She felt her heart ease to see Lothíriel and her parents smiling happily together again. With nothing to do during the hand-fasting, except keep half an eye on the bridegroom’s foster-sons, she was free to enjoy the sights.

From where she stood to the side of the high platform before Meduseld, she could look right down the hill, packed tight as it was with folk all craning to get a view. Nearer the top the crowd became more mixed with many dark heads standing in groups among the fair. The green terrace in front of the Hall seemed a sea of bright colour as clothing and banners mingled together; the green and white of the Mark, the black and silver of Gondor and the bright blue and silver of Dol Amroth. She even spied the black and blood-red of the Southrons safely fenced behind a few of the Household-men.

Éowyn she thought looked lovely and quite at home in the part she was to play as Éomer’s closest kinswoman. Dressed in green, white and gold to match her brother she smiled every now and then at her husband where he stood, in the midst of his Dol Amroth kinsfolk under their own banner of unfigured white. _Still undecided on a device for Ithilien, I see,_ Winfrith smiled, knowing well that both the Prince and his White Lady were content enough to still bear the standard of the Stewards.

Erkenbrand of Westfold was also to stand with his king and his striking bearing and silver hair lent a dignity to the scene which Winfrith could only approve. Éomer himself looked splendid and kingly and a little solemn but not enough to be grave. The bright midday sun shone warmly on the circlet on his brow and everywhere on the great house behind him was the glint of gold. The ancient Hall, washed clean by the recent rain, prepared itself to bear witness once again.

Éomer had asked his friend, the King Elessar, to hear their vows, using the speech of both Gondor and the Mark, but any uneasiness that Winfrith had felt about the rightness of that choice was banished the moment he began. For he spoke her tongue with such word-feeling, without fault or flaw, that if she had closed her eyes, she would never have known that he was not an Eorling born. And again she wondered how he had fared at first, another dark-haired stranger in the House of Eorl. Yet the Hall had welcomed him as its own, and right generously had it been repaid. That was indeed a hopeful thought.

The ceremony continued on without a hitch and Lothíriel remembered her words very well. Almost before Winfrith knew it, Éomer was placing the Queen’s circlet upon his wife’s brow and kissing her most heartily before them all, as the great horns of the Mark sang out and the crowd burst into a riot of noisy cheers.  



	5. Stars-rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edoras, 3021, the last year of the Third Age. Tomorrow the Golden Hall will witness the wedding of Eomer King of the Mark and Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. For more than thirty years another has kept it safe, but now she must make ready for the coming of the Queen.

The time between the ending of the hand-fasting and the evening’s feasting had been full of hustle and bustle for Winfrith, for which she had been glad as it left her scarcely any time to think. Her best attire covered by an apron, she had divided herself between the kitchens, where there was roasting and baking to oversee, and the storerooms, where a sharp eye needed to be kept lest more than the allotted provisions, and in particular the wrong number of beer barrels, found their way down the hill to feed the hearty appetites of the common folk below. _Not that my king would mind,_ she had thought warmly, _for he is indeed openhanded to a fault – as a great lord should be._ But at last there had come a time when there was nothing further to do but return to her room to gather her thoughts.

Dusk had deepened to full dark when she walked across the high platform to the main doors of the Hall. Sounds of revels drifted up from lower down the hill but otherwise the air was quiet and still. Far below she could see the bonfires and torches burning in celebration while little pin-pricks of light moved across the grassland and circled the burial mounds of the kings. Many others were now honouring the dead in such a time of joy. Looking up she saw the day had indeed ended with a cloudless sky that was now welcoming the countless stars.

As she approached, the tallest of the door-wardens that stood there stepped forward to greet her, torchlight glinting off the gold of his mail. He bowed to her solemnly. “All is ready, they are waiting,” he said as he moved to throw back the doors. Then spoiling the dignity of the moment he stooped to give her a quick, whiskery kiss on the cheek. She laughed, feeling very pleased, and reached up to give his face an affectionate pat.

“Thank you, Éothain,” she smiled. She had a soft spot for the lad. Éomer’s playmate and faithful shadow since before they came together to Edoras, he could always be relied on for his steadiness and sense. _They grow up so quickly,_ she thought. _The voices change but the vows remain the same. Aye, Háma, I think you may safely go ahead and seek your rest in peace._ Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves she stepped over the threshold into the Golden Hall.

She knew it was foolish but her knees suddenly felt locked in place and she feared she might never take another step. _‘Tis so quiet! All I can hear is my heart!_ She fervently hoped she had not exclaimed the words out loud. Side pillars shimmered a little in the light of one or two torches set around the walls but otherwise all was in darkness. That did little to hide the simple truth that all the greatest folk, from several different lands, were pressed together waiting, in silent respect, for her to play her part. She could just make out Éomer standing at the front of the crowd, which merely made her fear the more; she couldn’t be failing in her duty now! But then she saw her lord was smiling at her, and she remembered how he had smiled when only just old enough to say her name. Her knees unlocked and she almost laughed at the thought that, all of them, even the Elvish Queen of Gondor herself, had once been nought but babes mewling and plucking at the breast.

Gathering up her wits, she remembered what she must do. The louver above the hearth was wide open and through it she could see the stars, now sharp and bright against the black. Alone in the centre of the Hall her new queen waited, and Winfrith caught her breath to see how fine and stately she stood, outlined by their light as it glinted on silver, crystal and pearl. _But, truly she must be feeling just as a-feared as me,_ she thought, _though brave lass that she is, she’s determined it will not show._ Then her heart went out to the newcomer and all her fears were forgotten in a desire to make her welcome.

Quickly she lit the brand from the brazier by the door and walked towards the hearth. The two women exchanged smiles as Winfrith grasped her hand and together they held the torch above the well-primed tinder; gnarled, blue veined fingers on slender ones, strong and white. Winfrith heard her take a steadying breath then both their voices were firm as together they said the words that had come down to them, the same words Winfrith had last spoken with Léofric’s mother all those many years ago:

_Keeper of the Hearth kindle us_  
Gather us up under your mantle  
And restore to us remembering.  
Mothers of our mother remind us how  
Foremothers strong show us the way  
To kindle the hearth keep it bright  
Preserve the flame’s flicker in darkness.  
Your hands upon ours our hands within yours  
Day and night now keep light kindled. 

There was a moment of stillness and then Meduseld erupted with applause as the flames leapt into life. Torches and candles where quickly lit all around the Hall and everywhere there was laughter and music as the merriment began in earnest. The two women busied themselves hanging the bowls of marriage-mead to mull above the fire and did their best to look askance at some over-bold comments tossed their way.

_Aye, she looks radiant indeed at the heart of it all,_ Winfrith thought, after a while, as she watched her queen greet the guests, hand in hand with her husband. And even the Southrons, with their backs to the wall, had drinking cups in their hands. _Yes, everything is as it should be. Except that it seems the company might start the singing and the dancing before the food is ever brought to the board._ She stepped quickly back through the crowd and signalled to the servers that they should stop their gaping and get a move on, for that really would not do at all.

* * * * * * *

**Author's notes:**

~The verse for kindling the hearth has been adapted from a Celtic blessing which can be found here: http://mysite.freeserve.com/silurian/page6.html

~The Ithilien Ranger’s grandmother would have been forced from her home sixty-seven years ago.

~In Old English Winfrith means ‘lover of peace’.  



End file.
